


Metaphor Short-Stature, or, How John Watson Finally Learned to Love Himself (and Sherlock) by Loving Himself

by May_Shepard



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Basically One MASSIVE In Joke, Baskerville Research Facility, Clone Sex, Crack, Crack with Feels, Don't Judge Me Because I'm Cracktastic, Everyone Needs A Hug, Glitter, Look This is Just Cute for the Sake of Cutenness, M/M, Our In Jokes Are Your In Jokes, Rating will change, Smoll Sherlock, Tags May Change, Trash John, Wish Fulfillment, Written for the Amusement of the Parties Mentioned Herein, clone feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:04:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, eight Johnlock loving Tumblrers got together and complained vigorously about John Watson. Together, they envisioned a better John Watson, one who cared, one who wasn't quite so trashy, one who could see the hot loveliness right in front of him and get on it like he should. Simultaneously, they started a joking conversation about the way Moftiss used the name Jonathan Small in TSoT. "They might as well have called him Metaphor Short-Stature," the comment ran, I think originally RoseInMyHand's. </p><p>Hence Metaphor Short-Stature was born, the John Watson we all wish John Watson could be.</p><p>Shortly thereafter I wrote this crack, and cast my dear friends in MSS love in it. I hope if you're reading this it brings you even the tiniest amount of the joy this ridiculousness has brought us. </p><p>For a longer, crackier, and more amazing explanation of the origins of Metaphor Short-Stature, please go and read the incredible meta written by heimishtheidealhuband: <a href="http://heimishtheidealhusband.tumblr.com/post/126960736308/fandom-meet-metaphor-short-stature">Fandom, Meet Metaphor Short-Stature.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meretriciovs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meretriciovs/gifts), [MonikaKrasnorada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonikaKrasnorada/gifts), [handsinpants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsinpants/gifts), [hopelesslybenaddicted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelesslybenaddicted/gifts), [QueenMab3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenMab3/gifts), [IamJohnLocked4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/gifts), [RoseinMyHand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseinMyHand/gifts).



**Metaphor Short-Stature, or, How John Watson Finally Learned to Love Himself (and Sherlock) by Loving Himself**

STARRING

Idealized John Watson as Metaphor Short-Stature

John and Sherlock as Themselves

[heimishtheidealhusband](http://heimishtheidealhusband.tumblr.com/) as Heimish

[monikakrasnorada](http://monikakrasnorada.tumblr.com/) as Moni

[hopelesslybenaddicted](http://hopelesslybenaddicted.tumblr.com/) as Hope

[roseinmyhand](http://roseinmyhand.tumblr.com/) as Rose

[hotdiggitydollie](http://hotdiggitydollie.tumblr.com/) as Dollie

[queenmab3](http://queenmab3.tumblr.com/) as Queenie

[iamjohnlocked4life](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) as Johnlocked

and ~~not starring~~ but definitely involving [perhaps in a tiny cameo in the last bit]  ~~[elizabeth-twist](http://elizabeth-twist.tumblr.com/)~~ ~~wait who am I?~~ [may-shepard](http://may-shepard.tumblr.com/) as May Shepard, the dork who wrote this

 

Illustrative Manip by the Luscious [hotdiggitydollie](http://hotdiggitydollie.tumblr.com/) 

 

Once there was a dashing young man with heroic tendencies, a tender heart made for love, and an innate ability to make the perfect cup of tea. He lived in an idyllic cottage in the countryside with seven beautiful lady scientists who loved him with all their hearts. His name was Metaphor Short-Stature.

What Metaphor Short-Stature didn’t know was that the beautiful lady scientists weren’t just his mums and very good friends who had taught him to be lovely to everyone no matter what, and to use his devastating handsomeness for good, and to avoid at all costs slowly destroying the self-confidence of sad gay baby detectives. They had also created him in their laboratory at Baskerville. He was a clone of someone they all admired and were a bit angry with on a constant basis, but on whom they had pinned many of their hopes for a bright and shiny future.

One day, Metaphor Short-Stature was playing on the internets, when he found a very interesting website called The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson. He stared at it for a long time, and, despite the lady scientists’ constant admonitions about touching the screen, he did reach out and touch the tiny picture of John H. Waston.

“He looks just like me,” he whispered.

Deep underground in the Baskerville labs, an alarm sounded. Heimish, who had been monitoring Metaphor’s computer, alerted all the lady scientists to let them know that the scenario they’d feared and hoped for was finally coming to pass.

“Dammit.” Heimish slammed her fist down on the conference room table, when they had all gathered together. “We haven’t written sufficient metas to cover this situation. We just don’t know what will happen if he actually goes to London.” In fact Heimish had written a ten-chapter meta on exactly that scenario, but it had suddenly developed legs and would soon be expanded into a thirty-part series which she would publish the following week, and which was absolutely 100% brilliant.

Moni leaned back in her chair, twirling her Purple Hair of Sex around one finger. “Whatever happens,” she said, “this was inevitable. I mean, he had to figure out why he’s abnormally attracted to terrible jumpers at some point. He’s a good Metaphor. He deserves to understand where he comes from, why he’s here.”

“Well, he’s here because we all thought John Watson was ridiculously handsome, but kind of a jerk,” said Hope. “Still, very hot, running around terrified for his life in our basement.” She had done up a gifset of the entire incident. “I mean, we couldn’t let all our funding go to waste, and my plan to place him in permanent housing in a giant garbage can and limit his impact on our nation’s sad gay baby detective resources wasn’t supported by the higher ups. Cloning was the right thing to do.”

“Ultimately Metaphor Short-Stature is really all about wish fulfillment,” said Rose, looking over her leatherbound copy of Donna Haraway’s complete works. “If John Watson were a better person, we wouldn’t need Metaphor Short-Stature in the first place.”

“Plus he  _was_  fun to make,” said Dollie, whose hands were busy as usual sewing a small, fuzzy version of Metaphor Short-Stature himself. This one wore leather pants and had a tiny pink belly button. “I think we can be pretty confident that he’ll do all right out in the world, so long as we supply him with sufficient pound cake and marmalade for the trip.”

Queenie nodded and pointed to the screen behind her, which displayed a complex series of charts and graphs. “His glitter quotient is definitely at optimal levels right now. He’ll attract glitter to himself, but only enough to make those around him feel sparkly and special. If we wait any longer to send him out into the world, we might be looking at a glitter overload situation. Metaphor could become such a powerful glitter magnet that he turns into a big gay vortex from which no detectives or detective-adjacent bloggers can escape.”

Johnlocked stood at the end of the table. “I guess it’s up to me to help him pack, then. Despite our numerous training sessions, he still doesn’t quite understand the power of red pants, and if he forgets them, this entire experiment could go sideways.”

Everyone nodded vigorously.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Metaphor Short-Stature meets Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes listened to John rage-sniff his way through the kitchen. Clearly he’d discovered Sherlock’s latest experiment, which involved seeing how long it would take John to notice he’d put John’s favourite pair of pants through the garbage disposal. As it turned out, the precise time frame was three hours and twenty-two minutes.

John stomped through the sitting room in his going out shoes.

“You’re going out,” Sherlock told him. “Maybe you could get some milk–”

But John had already rage-thumped down the stairs and out the door.

Sherlock stood at the window, playing his violin and watching John angrily march his way down the street. For the thousandth time he told himself he probably shouldn’t admire the way John carried himself like a soldier even when he was completely enraged, but oh well. Sometimes he just could not help himself.

He was nearly done playing through his latest composition when John came walking up the sidewalk. Curious. He came from the opposite direction in which he’d gone. He must have circled the block. Even more strange, he seemed to be very relaxed. His arms swung easily from his shoulders, and he actually smiled at an elderly man who passed him on the sidewalk.

He was also wearing a particularly hideous Christmas jumper instead of the plaid shirt and black jacket he’d had on a moment ago. He had a backpack. He carried a plastic grocery bag in one hand.

Sherlock watched, his brow furrowed, as John appeared to look up at the building, the same relaxed smile on his face. What was he doing? Was he drunk? He’d only been gone five minutes. How had he changed clothes, bought a backpack, poured himself an enormous glass of scotch, drunk it, and done shopping in that time?

Sherlock heard the doorbell ring distantly from its place in the refrigerator.

If John was ringing the bell, he could very well be in trouble.

Sherlock raced down the stairs, his second best dressing gown flying behind him, revealing just the top of his frankly adorable bottom as his pyjamas slipped down his hips a little. He flung open the door.

“Hi,” John said, a broad grin on his face. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock had seen John really angry. When John rage-grinned, it was the worst.

“What has Mary done now?” Sherlock hissed, grabbing John’s wrist and hauling him inside.

“Mary? I don’t know who that is,” John said, doing a very good impersonation of an affable fellow.

It seemed the drugs Sherlock had been feeding John non-stop had finally helped him to erase that whole wife-having thing from his memory. Sherlock would have felt relieved if it weren’t for the way John was behaving.

“I know you’re angry with me, but it’s only one pair of pants, John. You have others. Please, come upstairs.”

John wiped his shoes carefully on the mat before following Sherlock up the stairs without complaint. Once he was in the flat, he took his coat off and carefully hung it up.

“I do,” he said to Sherlock.

“Do? Do what?”

“I have other pairs of pants. It’s true. Some of them are red.”

He still smiled at Sherlock, but Sherlock was beginning to think John wasn’t mad at him at all. Sherlock tried not to feel things in response to the idea of John in red pants, and failed rather miserably.

“The science of deduction,” John said. “You’re really smart, aren’t you?”

“Please this is no time for sarcasm, John.”

John smiled and tilted his head, looking at Sherlock as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Is it time for tea? I mean, would you like some? I brought a really nice Darjeeling blend and some milk. Also some biscuits. I think you’ll like them.”

“Okay.” Sherlock rushed into the kitchen, where he hurried to put on the kettle and warm the teapot and find clean cups.

“I can do that,” John said. “I mean, if it’s not too presumptuous of me. Why don’t you just sit down?”

Sherlock watched as John bustled around the kitchen, putting teacups on a tray and finding a plate for what did indeed look like really good biscuits. He hummed as he pinched tea leaves into the warm teapot and waited for the kettle to finish.

“So, tell me about what you’re up to,” John said. “I’d like to know all about how a famous detective goes about his day.”

“Please John. Tell me what’s wrong.”

John smiled at him. Shit. He really was angry.

“Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all. I mean, I’m a little tired, and to be honest the city is a bit overwhelming, but I’m fine. I suppose I just want to understand, well, you, and what your life is like.”

Sherlock blinked as John handed him a hot cup of freshly poured tea. What could he say? He hadn’t even had time to try to extract the remains of John’s pants from the garbage disposal. He couldn’t exactly tell John about the slowly rotting bowl of fruit he’d left under his bed, even if it was for science. Nor should he say anything about the drugs. He supposed he could stop those now. Clearly John had had enough.

The tea was absolutely wonderful, as were the biscuits. Sherlock wondered if he could push his luck just a little bit further today.

“Do you want to play a game?”

John’s face lit up like he’d never heard a better idea. “It would be my honour.”

Three games of Cluedo and a round of Operation later, Sherlock had stopped wondering whether John had somehow hit his head and had genuinely started to enjoy himself. He marveled that John, usually so competitive and tetchy about his professional skills, had allowed Sherlock to win at Operation.

“No, really. You extracted the heart just perfectly,” John assured him.

A comfortable silence came over the room, and Sherlock leaned back in his chair, wondering why things weren’t always this easy.

“You really have a wonderful life here, don’t you?” John asked.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Well, it’s become a lot better since you moved in. And then moved back in.” It was the kind of thing he wouldn’t normally say, but he was feeling unusually comfortable with John right now.

John’s face broke out into a completely infectious grin. “I have to phone my mums,” he said. He pulled a very high-tech looking gadget from his pocket. “Do you mind?”

Sherlock sat up in his chair. Except for Harry, John had never talked about his family, not at all. And he’d said “mums,” plural.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock said, watching as John pressed some buttons on what really looked not so much like a phone as something from a James Bond movie.

“Hello?” an elegant female voice answered. “Metaphor, is that you?”

“Hi, Queenie, yeah.”

“How is your glitter quotient?”

John winked at Sherlock. “Stable, I think. Maybe increasing a bit, but that’s because I’ve just had some great news.”

Sherlock could feel his mind beginning to buzz with the influx of new information. Glitter? What did glitter have to do with anything? He did have to admit that John seemed especially sparkly right now.

“Listen,” John said into the phone. “Can I put you on speaker?”

“Sure!”

“Is everyone there?”

“Just a minute, darling,” the voice answered.

A chorus of voices chimed in, using what Sherlock took to be code names or some kind of cult identifiers. “What’s your news?” one of them asked.

“Well, Heimish, I’m sitting here with Sherlock Holmes. We’ve spent the afternoon together. He’s really nice.”

“I always knew you’d get along. All my metas couldn’t be wrong.”

“Thanks,” John said. “Guess what? He says I can stay here. Isn’t that amazing?”

The chorus of voices exclaimed, cheered, and cried “Hallelujah!” Sherlock furrowed his brows. If he was correct in his impromptu voice analysis, John had seven mums.

“You still have your red pants, right?” one of them asked.

“Of course, Johnlocked,” John said. “I wouldn’t forget them.”

What a strange name, Sherlock thought. It sounded almost as if it could be some kind of code involving him and John, but what did it mean?

“You keep on being sweet now,” another of them said.

“I will, Moni. I promise.”

“You put the pound cake in the refrigerator?” still another voice asked.

“Yes, Dollie. I had to push aside a bag of thumbs to do it. Isn’t that cool? I’m thinking we can save the cake for dessert, after dinner.”

“That’s a good idea. You don’t want to throw in too much sugar all at once,” another voice said. “We’ve talked about how you could easily upset the balance of things there through your sheer human goodness.”

“You’re right Rose.” John smiled at Sherlock. “We’ve just been playing games all afternoon, so I think we’re fine.”

A final voice came through the line. “No sign of…‘Trouble?’”

John smiled and winked at the phone, which was curious, because as far as Sherlock could tell, he wasn’t using any camera. “No, Hope. 'Trouble’ has yet to show.” He giggled. “I still can’t get used to that code name,” he whispered to Sherlock. “But I guess everyone uses them these days, kind of like how you keep calling me 'John.’”

After that he said a lengthy series of seemingly very heartfelt goodbyes and hung up the James Bond gadget.

Sherlock watched him carefully. “You’ve never said anything about having seven mums before.”

John shook his head. “I guess I haven’t had the chance. They’re the best. I would really like it if you could meet them some day. They’ve helped me understand the important things in life. Like how you should make sure, when you meet someone really special, that you appreciate them for everything they do. You know? It’s like you. You really like playing games, don’t you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

“See? And this whole afternoon, you’ve spent all this time playing with me, and I really like games even better than I did before.”

“Okay.”

John smiled. “So is 'Trouble’ coming back any time soon? I’d really like to meet him as well.”

Sherlock was about to say that he didn’t understand what John was talking about when the door to the street opened and someone with very angry footfalls came stomping up the stairs.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble comes home.

John Watson stomped up the stairs to the flat, more than slightly disgruntled to find that Sherlock had company. He glanced over as he flung his coat down on the sofa and tracked mud onto the carpet like the utter trash prince that he was.

At first all he noticed was that whoever their visitor was, he was sitting in  _John’s chair_. John felt his rage rising within him. Clients never sat in his chair. It was unthinkable.

Sherlock was on his feet, wearing a shocked expression as he looked John over from head to toe. John had to admit that he loved having Sherlock’s eyes all over his body, in a totally non-gay way, of course. He’d often wondered what it would be like to have Sherlock’s hands and tongue all over his body too, in an equally non-gay way, because he wasn’t gay.

Sherlock blinked many times, in that adorable way he did when he was processing new information that made John wonder what it would be like to press his cheek up to those eyelashes and feel them flickering against his skin.

“John?” he said, in a way that was strange, hesitant, and also extremely sexy.

“Yeah.”

“John.” Sherlock was now staring at whoever it was sitting in John’s chair. He was looking at this person with something other than open hostility, which in itself made John want to punch everything.

“Hi!” the guy said, and stood up, and walked over to John.

It wasn’t quite like looking in a mirror, John decided, because he would never allow himself to look that dorky. He always wore his ugly Christmas jumpers semi-ironically. He was surprised enough, when the guy–himself?–grabbed him and hugged him, that he forgot to throw a punch or start yelling.

Sherlock just stood there, blinking and turning his head to the side as if contemplating not-John’s bottom. John’s jealousy seethed up to the surface of his rage, until not-John kissed him on the cheek and pulled him into another, even longer embrace.

“I’m so glad to meet you!” he said, finally releasing John.

John had to admit that being held and kissed by a man was actually really nice. It did still enrage him, though. 

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said, in his best Spock imitation yet. “John, do you have a twin brother?”

John stared at himself, the guy, not-John. “I don’t think so?”

The guy smiled. “I’m not technically your twin, not exactly. I’m Metaphor Short-Stature. You can call me Metaphor. I’m you, but different.”

“Sherlock? How is this possible?”

The guy–Metaphor–smiled at John sweetly. “Well, science. But I’m thinking we can talk about all of it over dinner.” He looked at Sherlock. “You must be hungry after everything we did this afternoon.”

Sherlock smiled, what looked to John like a genuinely friendly smile. What  _had_ they done all afternoon? He saw that the Cluedo set and Operation were out on the table. John’s jealousy seethed up around him in a hot, palpable wave. He was the one who was supposed to play games with Sherlock, even if Sherlock always cheated and John always got angry.

“Dinner sounds great,” Sherlock said. “Shall we cook?”

“Okay!” Metaphor bustled into the kitchen and started rooting around in the fridge and their pots and pans cupboard.

John pulled Sherlock aside. “What is going on?”

Sherlock continued to watch Metaphor work in the kitchen. He seemed completely distracted.

“Sherlock,” John said. “Sherlock!”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, blinking back to reality and looking at John. “Right. I suppose…he’s cooking us dinner?”

“And you’re just going to let him? We’re just going with this?”

Sherlock frowned at him, and seemed to really see him for the first time since John had come back. “I don’t see why not.”

In the kitchen, Metaphor Short-Stature was chopping things and humming to himself.

John pulled Sherlock a little further away from the kitchen doorway. “It could be some kind of trick, couldn’t it? I mean, where is he from? Why is he here?”

“Oh, I’m here because I wanted to meet you, John,” Metaphor said as he handed John and Sherlock glasses of a plucky Shiraz that he’d brought in his backpack. “I found your blog and I just couldn’t believe that there was another _me_ out there. I mean, my mums explained it all to me. Once I knew who you were and how important you are, to me, anyway, they couldn’t very well hide the truth from me. I would love for you to meet them. They’re the best.”

John shot Sherlock a look. “Mums?” he said under his breath, but Sherlock was completely focused on Metaphor, grinning and nodding like–well, not like himself at all.

Metaphor was still talking cheerfully. “To be honest with you I just wouldn’t have felt right if I didn’t try to come say hello and get to know you, and you know, help if I can.”

John felt his face contorting into a sneer, even as he tasted the wine and had to admit that it was really very good. He watched as Metaphor went back into the kitchen and started working at the stove top. Soon the whole flat was filled with the smell of something amazing cooking.

Sherlock elbowed John, and looked at him expectantly. John flashed on a memory of bringing home a stray dog when he was a kid, asking his mum if he could keep him. He remembered how devastated he was when the answer was no.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay but just so we can figure this out.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, turning to watch Metaphor as he went up on tiptoes to try reach up into the cupboard and get some plates down. Metaphor’s sweater lifted away from his jeans, revealing a pale band of skin across his lower back. John had to admit that was rather adorable, in a totally non-hot way. He wondered if he looked that adorable trying to reach the plates. 

“Here, let me help you,” Sherlock said, moving into the kitchen and leaving John to stand there all by himself, watching as Sherlock placed a hand on Metaphor’s shoulder and took down the plates for him.

John was certain that he should be feeling a large amount of rage and the mysterious jealousy that always arose when Sherlock was anywhere in the vicinity of someone who wasn’t John. Instead, he watched them as they stood and talked. It was more than a little surreal, of course. He was sure that his hair didn’t need cutting as badly as Metaphor’s did–or should John maybe consider growing his a little longer again? And he was certain that his arse looked better in jeans.

He was also sure, albeit for reasons he had trouble remembering, that he hadn’t looked that unabashedly happy for a long time. The way that Metaphor was looking at Sherlock, with a combination of awe, respect and raw enthusiasm: that was the way John used to feel all the time, just being around Sherlock. He took a big gulp of wine, swallowing down some unnamed emotion along with it.

Sherlock smiled as he showed Metaphor his microscope, and cleared a bag of some unnameable red goo off the table.

Sherlock looked happy.

John tried to think back to when Sherlock had ever looked so excited to talk to someone, but his mind kept running back to all the times he and Sherlock had narrowly escaped death or solved a really big case together. Sherlock normally only got this excited to talk to John.

He realized that the kitchen looked a lot like a scene out of a cosy domestic play: him, or at least, a slightly gormless, slightly less handsome version of him, and Sherlock, getting along, looking like they were really enjoying each other’s company. He tried, and failed, to swallow down the lump in his throat again. He had to admit it looked pretty damn near perfect.

“John?” Metaphor called his name. “Dinner’s almost ready. Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” John said. He didn’t try to disguise the rough quality of his voice.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Metaphor Short-Stature serves an intrepid Gewürztraminer, a thing with peas, and information.

Metaphor Short-Stature poured more wine into John’s glass. They’d moved on from the plucky Shiraz to an intrepid Gewürztraminer that went much better with the thing with peas Metaphor had made for dinner.

“So you’re from Baskerville,” Sherlock said. “How exactly do you explain–all of this?” He gestured broadly from Metaphor to John, his long-fingered hand looping elegantly through the air.

Sherlock's hands mesmerized Metaphor, almost as much as Sherlock in general seemed to mesmerize John. More than once Metaphor had caught John gazing at Sherlock when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking.

“My mums are brilliant scientists. It’s true. Although technically I’m not a product of science at all. Strictly speaking, I’m a literary device.”

John laughed out loud. “You’re a metaphor!” He held up his hand for someone to high-five.

Metaphor leaned over the table and did just that. “Exactly!”

He was worried about going a bit too far with the next part of the explanation. Too much information all at once, and he might throw things out of balance. “Sometimes the world can be a pretty confusing place.”

“And dull,” Sherlock added.

“Yes.” Metaphor realized Sherlock was sad. Anyone could see that, although it wasn't obvious why. He wondered if it might be possible to dispell some of that sadness with a few strategically placed kisses.

John cleared his throat. "Go on."

“When things are not quite the way they should be, there are these little gaps in reality, like loopholes in the time-space continuum. My mums have been researching ways for people to see them more clearly, and take advantage of them.”

He watched John’s face carefully to see how he was reacting: so far, so good. John looked only mildly disgruntled.

He took a deep breath. "You know how sometimes you meet someone who's enough like you that you can see yourself in them, but just different enough that they sort of wake you up to the possibilities? Things you maybe should have done, but didn't get the chance to?"

John blinked and glanced at Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his brow furrowed.

Metaphor took a deep breath. Telling them all of this was basically giving the game away, but he didn't think it could be helped. "My mums figured out how to concentrate this effect. They call it 'mirroring.' It's how they made me. Technically, I’m really just another version of you, John.”

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath that sounded like “less grumpy.”

John frowned aggressively into his wine glass. “I’m not grumpy,” he said, and shifted in his chair.

Sherlock blinked at Metaphor. Even his blinks were incredibly adorable. “So Baskerville had a plan in all this. There’s something we’re supposed to be seeing, through you, that we’ve been missing. But what?”

"That's the one thing I don't know. My mums said you would have to figure it out. And then they told me something about how mirrors aren't supposed to understand everything we're meant to reveal? Because we're secondary characters. So I guess this is all about you. Both of you."

Sherlock closed his eyes. There was a long silence during which he seemed to be swoopily conducting an invisible orchestra with his elegant hands. "No," he said, under his breath. "Can't be. Is it?"

John waved a hand in Sherlock's general direction. "Mind palace."

Sherlock's eyes popped open in the most charming expression of surprise. "Oh!" he said. He looked at John, head tilted, for a long moment.

“Clearly it’s evil,” John said. “If it comes from Baskerville.”

 “Evil?" Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Do you think? Bluebell wasn’t evil, just luminous. Metaphor’s just a more glittery version of you. There’s no need to be threatened.”

John’s head whipped around like he’d been struck. “I’m not _threatened_. He’s not more glittery than me." He mumbled into his wine glass again. "I could be glittery.”

Sherlock reached over the table and swiped a finger across Metaphor’s cheek. “I mean literally. Literally metaphorically.” He winked at Metaphor as he pulled his magnifier out of his dressing gown pocket and held it over his fingers. “Look John. It’s coming from his pores.”

Metaphor had to check in with Queenie ASAP. Glitter on his skin meant that he could be heading for a crisis.

He found himself very reluctant to leave the kitchen table and make the call home, however important it was. If he waited, maybe Sherlock would touch his cheek again. He tried his best to compose himself, wondering if he might need to make some kind of structural readjustment to his trousers before standing up.

John stared at him with a mixture of wonder and disgust on his handsome yet tension-filled face, while Sherlock swiped the glitter onto a slide and sat at his microscope.

“It appears to be made of individual particles, but it’s smooth and liquid, like--well. Like liquid. Remarkable!”

Metaphor began to feel, with every sincere muscle fiber, nerve ending, and molecule of his being, that the most appropriate thing he could do was sweep all the dishes off the table, climb over it, kiss Sherlock full on the lips, fall into his arms, and never climb out again until everyone and everything in the flat was reduced to a pool of glitter.

It was all he could do to resist. At the same time, he knew this was more than a bit not good.

John watched the top of Sherlock's head as he leaned over the microscope. His gaze flickered over to Metaphor, and then he looked at the kitchen doorway, as if he would like nothing better than to escape the room. The more Metaphor watched him, the more he thought John looked like someone who was having trouble breathing.

He understood now. Of course. Metaphor was a mirror of John; everything Metaphor felt was simply a reflection. And Metaphor didn’t just want to make out with Sherlock (although he did, very badly). He _loved_ Sherlock.

_John_  loved Sherlock.

Did Sherlock reciprocate those feelings? That was the question, wasn't it?

He struggled to remember what his mums had taught him about glitter technology. He squinted at Sherlock's fingertips: they were perfect, and fingertip coloured. Metaphor’s glitter had thoroughly absorbed into Sherlock’s skin, leaving almost no trace except a certain heart-shaped glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes. It could only mean one thing. Sherlock Holmes was a romantic, and gay as a daffodil.

He wondered what he should do. He had to do _something_ : the very glitter in his blood cried out for release. It was at least worth a try, to see what might happen if he perhaps offered Sherlock a bit of a shoulder massage.

Sherlock’s phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket. “Graham! What do you want? This is a terrible time!” he barked as he stalked out of the kitchen.

“Metaphor?” John said. “Do dishes?" The question was fraught with tension.

Now that Sherlock was out of the room, Metaphor remembered he was a guest in this flat, and should be on his best behaviour. “I would love to.”

He grabbed a dish towel and waited while John filled the sink with soapy water. He wasn’t here to seduce anyone, no matter how much he wanted to. He was here to answer some questions about his purpose, and to solve the puzzle of John and Sherlock.

For the first time in his rather brief life, Metaphor felt just a little bit sorry for himself.

The solution seemed to come of its own accord. Every time John handed him a dish or a glass, their fingers brushed against each other, and a tiny bit of glitter stuck to John’s hand.

From down the hall, Sherlock shouted that he couldn’t leave home for less than an eight. "I'm in a metaphorical situation of the utmost importance, Geoff! Not that I would expect you to understand."

John frowned at the water in the sink as he pulled out another plate and rinsed it. "Listen, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but whatever it is, you might as well stop.”

Metaphor took the plate and dried it. “What do you mean?" 

John turned toward him, a harsh whisper coming from between clenched teeth. "He isn’t like–whatever you’re thinking. Whatever you’re expecting to happen, it won’t.”

“John, I don’t want to intrude.”

“Yeah?” John’s face was starting to turn red. “It’s a little too late for that, isn’t it?” He was smiling at Metaphor, but he seemed really angry at the same time.

Metaphor was beginning to think John had all kinds of reasons for being angry, or at least frustrated, and Metaphor really needed to do something about that. Maybe he couldn't act on his own feelings, but he could make certain that John did. He had to try.

He knew he should probably phone home and consult his mums, but there was no time. Besides, he’d already gotten a bunch of glitter on John this evening.

He took John’s face in his hands and planted a soft kiss on John’s lips. Everyone knew that the more sensitive the body part, the more likely it was to absorb glitter.

The kiss lasted longer than he thought it would. John's lips were soft and pliant, just like Metaphor's. John placed a hand on Metaphor's low back and pulled him in close, their chests and bellies pressing together. Tentatively, Metaphor slipped his tongue between John's lips, and John sighed into Metaphor's mouth.  

"Maybe a little bit gay," John whispered as they broke the kiss.

Metaphor pulled John into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’ve been waiting for him for a long time, haven’t you?”

John sighed deeply. “Yes. I guess…I didn’t realize how much until I saw you looking at him like–”

“Like you look at him.”

John pulled away. His lips were regular lip-colour, if a bit red, which meant that whatever glitter transferred between them had absorbed into his system readily: a sure sign that John was not beyond hope.

“It doesn’t matter,” John said. “He’s Sherlock. He’s my best friend and I love him, but he doesn’t feel things that way. He's had to distance himself emotionally from everyone, including me.”

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom brandishing his phone. “False alarm. Was there dessert? I think I heard something about dessert.” He grabbed his glass of wine from the table, spun on his heels, and ruffled Metaphor’s hair as he breezed into the living room. “Let’s eat it in here,” he said. “We can watch crap telly together.”

Metaphor couldn’t help but smile at the way John’s eyebrows shot up toward the heavens.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally asks for help.

Metaphor awoke to the sensation of someone lifting his feet. He was warm and comfortable, tucked under a soft wool blanket on the sitting room sofa in 221B.

Whoever it was sat, then eased Metaphor's feet down onto his lap and held them there. Metaphor smiled before he opened his eyes. This little world that John and Sherlock had made together really was a paradise, even if they hadn't figured that out yet.

The early morning light was just beginning to filter through the curtains. Metaphor blinked up at the ceiling. He found himself hoping that it was Sherlock sitting at the end of the sofa, but he knew it wasn't.

He sat up. John frowned down at the floor, all the while cradling Metaphor's feet in his hands.

"John? Is everything okay?"

John sniffed in the way that only John could sniff. Earlier, Metaphor almost thought the noise meant that John was angry, but he knew now that John was simply overcome.

"I don't know what to do," John said. He stared across the room, at the ceiling, at the curtains, and into the fireplace before he finally looked at Metaphor, sniffed again, trembled in his mouth region, and went through a remarkable array of facial expressions, each one of which fully expressed an incredible depth of subtle emotion.

Metaphor sat up, reluctantly pulling his feet from John's lap. To compensate for the loss of contact he scooted his toes under John's thigh. John made no protest, but he did raise his eyebrows slightly in a way that suggested he rather liked it.

"What do you want to do?"

John laughed. "I think you know the answer to that already. You're me, aren't you? What do _you_ want to do?"

Metaphor grinned and pulled his legs under him, then crawled across the sofa so he could sit beside John. He smiled softly and touched the place where John's neck met his shoulder. A soft patina of glitter lingered on John's skin before sinking in. Metaphor knew he was at risk of giving John a glitter overdose, but these men were in crisis and he had long stopped caring about safety. This was about love, and love was more important than anything.

"If you were Sherlock? Right here, sitting here right now?" The words came out low and soft. The entire surface of Metaphor's skin was singing. He smiled, just imagining it. "I would take him in my arms and I would tell him I loved him. If I were you, that is."

John held perfectly still, as if moving would somehow break him, or stop Metaphor from saying everything he intended to say, and doing everything he wanted to do.

Metaphor slid his arm around John's shoulders and pulled him in. His lips brushed John's temple as he spoke softly.

"I'm going to tell you something, John Watson. I know you don't love yourself, but I love you, and I'll keep loving you until you do, until you feel strong enough to tell him everything and to do what you should have done a long time ago."

John's mouth set in a stoic line. He looked ready for a fight, ready for anything. Metaphor leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"Let's say I do want something to happen," John said. "I wouldn't know where to start."

Metaphor smiled beatifically and pointed to his backpack, which sat perched in John's armchair. "I do."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise for Sherlock; red pants of courage for John.

Sherlock slept long into the afternoon, better than he had for ages. When he finally managed to get out of bed, he padded to the toilet on stumbling feet, yawning and not quite awake, feeling happier and more relaxed than he had for years. He splashed water on his face and looked at the tangle of his hair in the mirror. For the first time in a while, he didn't hate what he saw there.

Last night, when Metaphor looked at him, Sherlock saw the raw enthusiasm and open adoration that he missed in John. Of course, he hardly deserved John's love any more. He had bruised John considerably.

With Metaphor, everything was still fresh and new, the way it had been once, a long time ago, when he and John had just met, before things became so messy and ugly.

Sherlock watched himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He knew he was in trouble, and he wasn't sure he cared.

There were two versions of John in this flat, each of them perfect in their own way. One of them seemed to be interested in him. He could see the potential for something good and pure and true there, and, admittedly, much less ruined by his own mistakes. It was tempting.

He could feel himself veering wildly between wanting to simply give in, to seek out Metaphor and indulge in everything he'd ever imagined doing with John, and knowing that it was John he really loved.

As he emerged from the toilet, he was thoroughly surprised to hear the sound of giggling--not laughter, _giggling_ : _John, giggling!_

He allowed a smile to play across his lips as he moved down the hallway. To see John happy. That would be worth something. That would be worth a great deal indeed.

The two of them were standing together, not exactly talking. John, in his oatmeal jumper and blue jeans, had his lips pressed against Metaphor's ear and was whispering something. Wearing a clean t-shirt with a line drawing of a rabbit on it and a pair of khakis, Metaphor grinned and nodded and watched Sherlock closely, his smile broadening if that was possible. He raised a finger to the corner of his eye and wiped at something. Metaphor was tender, Sherlock knew that. He was good for both of them.

At the same time, a complex blend of melancholy and happiness stirred in Sherlock's chest. John never pressed his lips to Sherlock's ear and whispered things.

Well, that's wasn't strictly speaking true.

There was that time on a case when they were trapped in that closet for three hours while the murder suspect took forever making dinner and doing laundry and possibly wanking right outside the door. Then John had whispered to him. And he had pressed his lips--softly, softly!--against Sherlock's ear.

Sure, he hadn't whispered some amusing and possibly sexy secret, like he was doing in Metaphor's ear right now. Then, alone together, it was, "Sherlock, what are we going to do?"

Sherlock had had no choice but to press his lips in turn against John's ear, and whisper "I don't know. Ideally we would wait so we can look for clues in his apartment like we planned."

And then there had followed a full hour of whispered speculation about whether the guy was going out for the evening, followed by an hour of whispered negotiation over which one of them would throw open the door and which one would rush him. By twenty minutes in, both of them were panting for undisclosed reasons, and John had worked his hand up under Sherlock's coat, over his shoulder blade, so as to pull him down for more whispering.

In retrospect it was their best date ever.

Seeing John's lips pressed to Metaphor's ear recalled that entire incident, and recalled every other time--thousands of them--that Sherlock had imagined John's lips pressing up against one part of him or another, and all the times he'd longed to press his lips against anything of John's.

Metaphor nodded and laughed some more, and looked at Sherlock as if Sherlock had just deduced something incredible, or invited him to an all-afternoon Operation marathon.

"Okay?" John asked Metaphor, giving his shoulder a squeeze, running his hand up to Metaphor's neck, and giving that a gentle caress too, which gave Sherlock an entirely new set of ideas about where he would like to put his mouth and other parts of himself.

Metaphor nodded, still watching Sherlock with that same mischievous grin.

Sherlock noted the sheen of glitter that lingered on the skin of Metaphor's throat. He really was amazing, almost another species, and yet...John. Made of John.

John cleared his throat. He smiled at Sherlock, looked at Metaphor, and back at Sherlock with something approaching affection, genuine regard, softness, and, perhaps, sadness.

"I'm going out for a bit," he said. "Be back in a while."

The door closed. Metaphor, standing there in his rabbit t-shirt, regarded Sherlock with a slightly roguish version of the smile John had just given him. They heard John's footsteps down the stairs, heard the street door open and close.

Metaphor swallowed hard. Some emotion or other. Sherlock couldn't tell because he was busy panicking.

"Come here."

Sherlock's entire being dropped straight into his groin--surprisingly okay as sensations went--at Metaphor's tone. It wasn't at all the sweet, gentle, affable voice he'd grown to like quite a bit. It was gruff. It was positively military.

He thought he should probably hesitate, but he drifted forward as if floating, his feet moving of their own accord, until he was standing inches away from Metaphor's adorable self.

Metaphor smiled up at him, put his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him into a firm, deep kiss.

A high whining noise escaped from someone. Sherlock was certain it must be Metaphor, whose whose tongue was doing something extraordinary in Sherlock's mouth. It must be Metaphor because Sherlock himself would never vocalise in such an unseemly manner. 

Metaphor held him by the dressing gown now, pulling him down for more kissing. Sherlock's hands fluttered everywhere, hovering over Metaphor's face and shoulders like ludicrous butterflies, uncertain where to land. It didn't matter soon enough because they somehow managed to stumble toward the sofa. Metaphor went around the coffee table, leaving Sherlock to step up onto it and directly onto the sofa while leaning over at an improbable angle to continue madly snogging Metaphor's entire face and neck area.

It was deliriously amazing, even as he knew it was entirely wrong.

They tumbled down together, limbs tangled, mouths all over each other. Sherlock tasted Metaphor's jaw, his neck, his collarbone. Metaphor's hands were everywhere all at once: sliding across his chest and up under his t-shirt; moving across his arms and shoulders; pulling him in for another kiss, another press of their bodies together.

Sherlock couldn't pull himself away, not yet. The illusion that he was finally kissing John, and that John was eagerly kissing him, running his fingers through his hair, pulling on his hair--amazing--and not allowing him any room to breathe at all was just too much.

If anything, Metaphor's technique seemed much more assertive than Sherlock would have imagined. As Metaphor opened his own trousers and pushed Sherlock's hand down into them, Sherlock began to wonder how he'd ever thought Metaphor would be gentle and playful. His entire body thrummed with the need for John to touch him like he was touching John right now. He--

His eyes popped open. One more deduction than he'd been counting on.

He and John sat there, unmoving, their lips pressed together, Sherlock's hand down John's pants. He glanced down: red pants? When did John purchase new red pants? Why did these red pants seem so much more alluring than any other pants? Was it because John was wearing them? Or because they had some special properties all their own?

"Sherlock?" John pulled back enough to ask the question.

"John." The word was full of meaning, and, Sherlock knew, full of wonder. He couldn't begin to think how any of this was possible.

John smiled. It was the same beautiful, half-lidded, soft smile Sherlock had only seen a handful of times, but which he craved like air. Like a thing even more vital to his life and happiness than air.

"I was wondering when you would notice."

Sherlock blinked, scrambling to recover some of his ego. "A trick, John? Did you really think I would be so easily fooled?"

John stroked Sherlock's hair. "I was hoping you wouldn't, honestly. Not for long anyway. Though I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to snog Metaphor. He does have some pretty nice qualities. I have to admit even I find it difficult to be jealous of myself."

Sherlock found himself feeling feelings, feelings he hadn't thought it would be possible to feel, not ever. Emotional feelings partially but not entirely unrelated to the feelings in his trousers.

"Why are you doing this, John?" It was relatively easy to ask such a vulnerable question with his hand down John's pants, wrapped around the very palpable evidence that John might not be gay but he was certainly bi as hell.

John smiled at him, pulled him closer, and slipped his hand down between them. He kissed Sherlock gently on the lips and whispered, "Because I'm in love with you, you idiot. Always have been. I've been foolish. I knew I couldn't live without you. It took Metaphor to make me realise I didn't have to."

Things were on the quiet side in 221B for the next few minutes, until they weren't. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson hears some interesting things, and the lady scientists talk about the implications.

Downstairs, in her kitchen, Mrs. Hudson was listening. She hadn't meant to listen. She'd meant to start baking lemon squares.

She'd heard the boys talking in the stairwell about their guest with the strange first name. She wanted to meet him. Mainly she wanted to do everything in her power to make sure that neither John nor Sherlock was on the cusp of making another terrible life choice. Lemon squares would offer the perfect excuse for a nosy visit.

The sounds had started moments ago. At first she was worried they had to do with the guest with the strange first name, but then she clearly heard Sherlock shouting "John!" This was followed by some low talking and some crashing noises. For a brief while she stood, ear cocked at the ceiling, sure that it was just another argument.

Then the moaning (Sherlock's) had begun, followed by two streams of invective (John's) so creative they rivaled anything she ever heard in her exotic dancing days. She put on her coat and hat, and was about to rush off to Mrs. Turner's, thoroughly excited that she could finally boast about the prospect of having married ones, when her phone rang.

"Hello?" She hoped it was no one important so she could hang up promptly. Based on the rhythmic thumping sounds coming from the upstairs apartment, things were getting very personal.

"Mrs. Hudson? Hi. You don't know me, but my name is Hope."

"That's lovely, dear."

"My friends and I--we're sort of friends of John and Sherlock's. We're quite a bit like you, Mrs. Hudson. We're really hoping that the boys get together. That's something we've all been wishing for, wouldn't you say?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed with delight. "Well I dare say I'm very glad to hear I'm not the only one. Besides Mike Stamford and Molly of course, and Greg Lestrade and Mycroft. Not to mention Sherlock's parents and, last time I talked to her, that sister of John's. Then there's that dominatrix woman. And most of Scotland Yard. And the Bart's morgue staff. But dear we don't have to worry any more."

The woman on the other end of the line shouted something about pound cake, and Mrs. Hudson was sure she heard cheering in the background.

A new voice came on. "Mrs. Hudson? Queenie here. Have you noticed anything different about John lately?"

Mrs. Hudson looked up at the ceiling, through which she could hear John quite clearly telling Sherlock everything he was going to do to some rather intimate parts of Sherlock's body.

"I should say so," Mrs. Hudson told Queenie. "But how d'you mean?"

"Would you describe him as exceptionally glittery?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "I always thought he was, no matter what he said. But I suppose lately--" she thought back to yesterday, when she'd run into John on the stairs. She'd just assumed he'd finally gotten some sense into him and decided to go to one of those nice bars where men could spend time with other men. "Yes. Definitely I've seen him wearing glitter, if that's what you mean."

There were sounds of the phone being shuffled around. "Hello ma'am. This is Heimish. I understand we have a situation. Would you describe what's going on as vigorous and sex-god like, or awkward yet tender? Future metas depend on the answer."

Mrs. Hudson giggled. Whoever these ladies were, she liked them a great deal.

The sound of something shattering came through the ceiling, followed by a fit of laughter. "I would say clumsy and loud, dear."

"Okay, that's great! I'm going to open the line to one of my co-mums--I mean, colleagues. Moni? You on the line?"

"I am. So Mrs. Hudson, am I to understand that there's almost no angst currently occuring there? We're trying to balance the gravity of the situation against a potential for glitter intoxication."

The sound of Sherlock's moans grew louder, accompanied by a high-pitched keening noise. "I'd say things are pretty happy. Low on the angst, which is a nice change if you ask me. I only have so many herbal soothers left until I meet my--doctor--next week."

"Mrs. Hudson? Johnlocked here."

"I'm sorry? Did you say--"

"I did. It's sort of a code, Ma'am. You won't ever have to worry about your herbal soother supply again. We grow the finest at Baskerville. I need you to answer one vital question. Have you seen any red pants in either of the boys' laundry baskets? Do you know if John has been wearing them?"

"Well, I only do their laundry on occasion, you know, dear. But now that you mention, I did hear one of them shouting something about red pants a few moments before things got started up there."

A buzz of conversation came through the line. A loud thump from upstairs was followed by a thin fall of plaster dust from the kitchen ceiling. Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows at it. A few cracks in her plaster was well worth this, if it all worked out for John and Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson? Hope again. We have to go, but thank you Ma'am. And congratulations to all of us."

"Indeed," Mrs. Hudson said before she hung up.

***

Back in the lab at Baskerville, the mums turned to Dollie as she began her presentation on Metaphor's structural integrity.

"He's basically a pound cake and marmalade matrix," Dollie said, "animated by glitter and structured by the readings we took from John while he was here." She placed her hand on the large tub of glitter that sat on the conference table in front of her. "This is the purest glitter we could manufacture. It prevents Metaphor from expressing John's less desirable traits. John suffers from an unfortunate accumulation of trash habits and influences, reinforced by recent experience. Metaphor has none of those tendencies. However, the glitter seems to have taken on a whole new set of traits that we never predicted. It seems it has an intelligence all its own. We always knew the glitter would have the tendency to leak, and escape the bounds of Metaphor's physical form, but now we suspect it has its own agenda."

As if to reinforce her point, a small trail of glitter seeped out from a microscopic leak in the tub and began to slide across the table.

"We can't say how stable he is," Queenie said, punching at her computer. "His glitter quotient has only been increasing over the past few hours. If it escapes into the population at large, we might have to broadcast a warning to the general public."

Rose pointed to an especially pithy passage in her thoroughly annotated copy of Michael Reddy's _The Conduit Metaphor_. "Metaphor's very existence depends on the fact that all reality is perceived through a metaphorical grid." She looked at the others, concern knitting her brow. "Now that John Watson has embraced the side of himself that Metaphor represents, it's unlikely that Metaphor will persist."

"But that's just it," Moni said. "We know he is still here. All life signs are good. It shouldn't be possible, but there it is."

"I think we might have underestimated John Watson's trash factor," Hope said. "Is it possible that even after banging Sherlock, he could still hurt him?"

Johnlocked shook her head. "The red pants torch has been passed. I don't see how it's possible that Metaphor still has more to do."

Heimish thumped her fist down on the table, nearly upsetting her heat activated Sherlock mug. "You said it, Rose. John has to embrace the side of himself that Metaphor represents. But what if we've miscalculated all along? What if he doesn't just need to embrace it metaphorically. What if John has to learn to love himself by loving himself _literally_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a BRIEF pause in the posting schedule since I'm out of town overnight. Next chapter on Monday. I think there will be two more before we're done!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Metaphorical climax and literal resolution.

It was only when John and Sherlock were completely spent, lying entangled on the sitting room rug with their clothes strewn everywhere, that Sherlock sat up with a start. 

"Where is Metaphor?" he asked. He looked down at John and couldn't help allowing a soft smile to cross his lips. The things they'd finally done together. He could cross at least two and a half of his lifelong ambitions regarding his mouth and John Watson off his list.

John stroked Sherlock's arm, sending whorls of pleasure all throughout Sherlock's body. "Do we really need to answer that question right now?"

Sherlock shrugged a little. As reluctant as he was about potentially leaving the flat, he couldn't help remembering the sad look on Metaphor's face when he'd said goodbye. "At the very least we have to thank him."

John sighed. "I suppose you're right. He's gone down to the pub. I was supposed to meet Greg and Mike, so I sent Metaphor instead."

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped, imaging all at once the confusion as people met the nicest, most sparkly version of John Watson they'd never imagined existed. He pictured Graham's WTF face (not much different from his regular face, admittedly) as Metaphor embraced him and paid him some compliment or other. And Mike! Mike was practically infused with glitter himself already. Would they hit it off? What would they find to talk about? Would they talk about Sherlock?

He laughed to himself as he looked at John. "I would really like to see that."

***

The noise and music from inside the pub reached John and Sherlock long before they arrived. There was clearly a pretty big party going on, and it had spilled out onto the street.

"Pull your cap down over your face more," Sherlock said to John. "It seems as though Metaphor's been very busy this evening."

John grumbled. "I didn't want to get dressed at all, much less get into disguise. Why do I have to wear the cap? I'm the real John Watson."

Sherlock squeezed John's shoulder. "I know you are."

John looked down at Sherlock's hand, then back up at him with a grin. Sherlock fought the urge to recoil as he often did when John rage-grinned. He blinked, processing some subtle difference between this and John's usual expression of violent anger. No. This smile was lovely. It was sincere.

A tiny spark of light shimmered in John's eyes for a brief moment before he cleared his throat. "Okay," John said. "Okay. What do we do?"

A crowd of office workers, ties and jackets and pencil skirts askew, pushed past them and into the pub. "I feel so amazing!" one of them shouted.

"Me too!" another said, brandishing something that looked like a shimmery G&T. "What's in these drinks?"

Sherlock grabbed the glass from the man's hand. He expected some kind of objection--at least a _hey, what do you think you're doing?_ or a _freak!_ or something--but the guy simply smiled and said, "Enjoy that!"

Sherlock turned the glass this way and that in the light, which reflected off heart shaped ice cubes and a perfectly sliced lime wedge, in which was inserted a tiny umbrella. "John, do you see this?"

John squinted up at the drink. "Yeah. They've never served me anything that nice looking!"

"No _look_ at it." It was beyond doubt. Glitter infused the tonic water like a shimmery rainbow slick, almost as if circulating of its own will.

Sherlock tried to look into the interior of the bar, even as raucous laughter burst out through the doors. "I've got to go in there," Sherlock said. "I think Metaphor is tending bar."

The truth was, Sherlock needed to go in there because ever since he'd met Metaphor, he couldn't resist his charms. Yes, he and John had finally done things with hands and tongues and various other significant body parts on the floor of 221B. However, now that he was only a few feet away from Metaphor himself, that magnetic pull was stronger than ever. He was drawn toward Metaphor, and he couldn't think what it meant, but he needed to find out.

"Okay," John said. "I'll follow but I'll stick to the back of the room, just in case."

"Good thinking."

***

Metaphor was standing on the bar, singing. Or, more properly, leading everyone in a rousing rendition of "Oh, What a Night." He wasn't sure why, but he was very attracted to that song. He felt somehow that it deserved to be enjoyed in a whole new way, that there was something about it that required redemption.

In one hand, he held the microphone. In the other, a bottle. It was probably vodka. Or maybe gin. He'd drunk from it a few times, and then started pouring it into people's glasses.

He'd always been warned about the dangers of backwash, of trying to avoid it. At the same time, he had to admit that the alcohol seemed all the better for a little glitter.

And ultimately it didn't matter. Glitter was coming off his body in waves, like a miasma, and dripping off his chin as sweat. It shimmered in the air all around him. He had a vague idea that he should care. He didn't. He didn't.

Everyone here was happy, and chanting his name and hooting. Well, they were chanting "John!" but close enough. He'd soaked John's oatmeal jumper through. He was pretty sure it would never be the same again. He was pretty sure it didn't matter.

Down on the floor, people jumped and danced and clamoured for more. Over in the corner he was pretty sure he saw that nice police lady making out with the even nicer pathology lab lady from Bart's. Greg Lestrade--or was it Graham?--was looking at them wistfully, while a bearded fellow was talking in an overly excited manner to a group of people in deerstalkers and gesturing wildly between Metaphor and someone standing near the back door of the bar with a ball cap pulled down over his face.

Then he saw him: there was Sherlock, looking up at the bar, concerned, maybe, wondering what was going on, yes, but no matter, there he was, and Metaphor was so in love, so absolutely in need of Sherlock right at that moment, it was inevitable that he would jump down and push through the crowd of people who all seemed to want to touch him, and go, irrevocably, like he always should have, toward Sherlock.

Suddenly he was in Sherlock's arms, and glitter poured from the entire surface of his skin. It was in his saliva and his hands were slick with it as he pulled Sherlock down for a kiss.

Sherlock's lips brushed Metaphor's, and his arms pulled Metaphor into an embrace, lips pressing and sliding together. It was everything all at once. A jolt of electricity ran up Metaphor's spinal column as he--

"Ow!"

Sherlock stood back, rubbing his lip. A sheen of glitter lingered, then disappeared, soaking into his chin.

"What's wrong?" Metaphor asked.

"It just felt like I stuck a fork in the toaster. A fork that was also in my mouth."

Oh no.

This was it, the thing he was supposed to look out for: his mums had warned him that if he began to destabilize, all metaphors might start manifesting into reality.

"My fault," Metaphor said.

This really was troublesome. He would hate to hurt Sherlock again but just looking at him was enough to make him feel as though he was about to explode with the force of a thousand nuclear--

No. Nope. He had to do better. He wanted to melt into Sherlock's--

No.

He wanted to kiss Sherlock. He wanted to kiss him so hard that they both experienced a certain turgid yet tingly sensation in the pants region.

Tentatively, he reached out, touched Sherlock's face, and drew him into another kiss.

It was beautiful, perfect, and so very literal. Their teeth scraped and Sherlock gently bit Metaphor's lip and somehow Sherlock tasted like John and gin and glitter and it was all incredibly lovely. He sighed against Sherlock's cheek and thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of Sherlock's hands on his arse.

"We need to get out of here," Sherlock panted into Metaphor's ear. "You're about to tear the whole place down."

All around them, people laughed and groped and drank and kissed and Metaphor grew very confused about what, exactly, was wrong with tearing the whole place down, if it meant everyone was so happy.

Then he frowned, remembering the man with the ball cap. "John was here."

"Was? No, he's there, by the door, with an unfortunate hat."

"Where?"

"You're quite right," Sherlock said. "He's gone."

***

"I don't care what you do, you just need to get him away from here," said the serious looking brunette for the third time.

John still couldn't figure out quite how he'd found himself outside the bar. One moment, he'd been watching Sherlock hug Metaphor, still finding it hot as Hades, still not jealous in the least, which was uncanny but amazing. The next, someone had grabbed his arm and dragged him out here on the pavement.

"I'm sorry who are you?" he asked again.

"It doesn't matter. Call me E," she said.

"Wait, are you one of Metaphor's mums? He talks a lot about you." John admitted he was a bit curious to know where Metaphor came from, and how exactly those Baskerville scientists had managed to imbue him with so many of John's good qualities. He'd always known he was a great boyfriend, or could be, if he could get over himself and be with Sherlock.

"I'm not," she said. "For lack of a better term, consider me the Baskerville Emergency Dispatch Operator. I can't go into detail about it, but what's happening here is considered a crisis."

At just that moment, a group of several women in black leotards, one of whom was wearing a flower crown, ran past them down the street, giggling loudly and scattering clouds of glitter in their wake.

"See what I mean?" E said, raising an eyebrow. "Soon Baskerville is going to storm in here with some very specific ideas about containing any potential threat."

John's heart sank. "Metaphor?"

"Metaphor."

John was about to say that he didn't see what the harm was in letting Metaphor interact with the public at large, so long as John wasn't there at the same time, when a group of revellers carried a completely hysterical Anderson out of the pub on their shoulders as Anderson screamed the lyrics to "Shakin' All Over" by Johnny Kidd.

"Okay," John said. "What do we do?"

"I can't promise they won't find you, but it would probably be best for everyone involved if you got him somewhere private."

John peered back into the bar. There, in the midst of the crowd, Sherlock and Metaphor were still snogging the hell out of each other.

He couldn't help but smile. Yes, the three of them needed to go somewhere private straight away.

He pulled his cap down over his face, grinned at the Baskerville Emergency Dispatch lady, and went in to extract Sherlock and Metaphor.

***

Sherlock had never been so delirious. He was aware, dimly, that this was what it was like to be high, although he'd never taken any drug that gave him this sense of pure joy, this earthy desire to simply be.

The three of them arrived back at Baker Street and tumbled in through the front door, laughing and touching and pausing to kiss and grope and strip off various items of clothing. Metaphor collapsed on the stairs, John's oatmeal jumper halfway over his head, smearing glitter in a fine layer down Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper.

John and Sherlock laughed and lingered, kissing noisily, tongues sliding, teeth bashing. John broke the kiss to drag Metaphor to his feet, pulling the jumper off the rest of the way and throwing it down. The three of them stumbled, busy hands, belly laughs, and all, staggered up the stairs and into the flat.

"I'll be right back down," John said as he stamped up the stairs to his room.

Metaphor and Sherlock giggled and crashed into the sitting room, where they both stopped dead.

Someone was standing in the room. That someone said quietly, "This is all an illusion!" and threw a giant handful of glitter in the air, and bolted.

Sherlock and Metaphor stared at each other, then burst into laughter.

The entire flat was coated in glitter--not the Metaphorical variety. And the walls were decorated with row upon row of post-it notes, all of which said the same thing: "Just fuck already!"

"Wow," Metaphor said. "That's literal. I can actually work with that."

"As can we all," Sherlock said.

Someone crashed down the stairs behind them. Sherlock turned, expecting to see John, but it was a lovely woman instead, who careened past them and down the stairs.

"Are we having a break-in?" John asked as he climbed back down the stairs, lube in hand. "I just...thought this might come in handy and there was somebody up in my..."

His voice trailed off as he surveyed the room around him. "Oh."

"Indeed," Sherlock said.

"Where's Metaphor?"

"In the literal bedroom," Metaphor shouted from down the hall. "You need to see this."

Sherlock's bedroom was indescribable. Glitter bombs had gone off everywhere, and there was every sort of supply Sherlock could imagine they would need, and several he never would have guessed existed. It was the strangest thing, as if the whole world were conspiring to get him and John together.  

"They're a bit late, aren't they?" John said, reading the "Just Fuck Already" post-it in his hand.

Metaphor grinned at Sherlock and John, his eyes watering, tiny streams of silvery glitter running down his adorable face. "Are they? Too late?" He clutched his hands in front of him and beamed at Sherlock and John.

Sherlock was still completely unaccustomed to having someone actually care about what happened to him and what he did, much less someone who approved so wholeheartedly. He found himself blinking back sudden emotion. He swallowed and took John's hand. "Yes."

"That's right," John said, sounding a little bit choked up himself. "We never got the chance to say thank you. I've been so thick, I don't think I ever would have realized what I really wanted until you came along."

Metaphor had lost a sock somewhere down in the stairwell. He ran his bare toes through the pile of glitter at his feet, rubbing it into the space between the floorboards. They'd probably never extract it all, Sherlock thought. Then he looked a little more closely. The glitter seemed to absorb in through the skin of Metaphor's foot.

Metaphor was already glittery, but he was only becoming moreso.

Dimly Sherlock wondered if he should be concerned, but he couldn't bring himself to think about it as John dropped his voice an octave and growled, "Metaphor, come over here."

Then John was pushing Sherlock down on the bed and Metaphor was climbing over him, sending bright sparks of desire up and down his spinal column. Together the two of them stripped him and he was surrounded by John, John on all sides, the best of John and the best of John over him and beside him and doing things, things with hands and skin and lips, two sets of hands and skin and lips, and it was everything he'd ever wanted and much, much more. Sherlock's back arched into the bed as John and Metaphor worked their way lower. Someone started to do something extremely amazing with lips and tongue, and someone else crawled up the bed, and draped himself over Sherlock's chest and belly, pinning him to the mattress and kissing him deeply and luxuriantly and passionately until he gasped for breath and moaned full-throatedly into the other man's mouth, whichever John he was.

It was the best thing that could have happened, given the circumstances. Or possibly just the best thing. The best.

***

Metaphor ran his lips down Sherlock's belly and upper thigh, lingering and teasing and concentrating very very hard on the literal thing he was doing. He drew circles across Sherlock's hip bone with his tongue and used his hands creatively but literally to make Sherlock moan. Above him on the bed, John kissed Sherlock, lips on lips, so absorbed in what he was doing, it was enough to make Metaphor break down and cry, to go straight into his nervous system and blossom there like a million white flowers--

He pushed away from Sherlock and sat down hard on the floor, his head pounding. It had only been a simile, thank God, but that was too close for comfort.

"Metaphor?"

John and Sherlock both looked down at him, their bodies taut and ripe and beautiful, enough to make him flush with desire. A slick of glitter broke out all across his skin. He smiled. "I'm fine."

This might be his undoing, but he couldn't waste this chance. He was made for one thing, just like John was: loving Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock held out his arms, and Metaphor crawled into them and kissed those red lips. John's arms encircled him and John kissed his neck.

He'd always felt loved, always felt that love was everywhere and everything, really, but here, now, his warm skin slick with glitter and trapped and held between the two best men in all the world, he knew it with all the certainty of firm hands and firmer other parts and warm tongues and soft caresses.

John and Sherlock seemed to get the same notion simultaneously. Sherlock laughed as he slid to his knees and so did John and then tongues and hands were in the best places possible. Metaphor gasped and he knew he couldn't possibly last much longer with all this attention focused on him.

It was amazing, his entire body seeming to expand and contract under slick mouths and the roughness of fingertips and he gasped, the whole room lighting up around him, flickering into darkness again as his eyelids fluttered.

"Did you see that?" Sherlock said, momentarily stopping the very good thing he'd been doing.

"Yeah," John said, panting heavily. "What was that?"

"I'm not sure I care," Sherlock said, using his hands where his tongue had been, thank God.

Without another word they went back to work on Metaphor, who gasped as liquid silver pulsed through his veins and out into the room and he was drowning, he was drowning them all in the substance or himself as the air turned into saturated neon and little stars of pleasure ran up and down his arms and legs and fireworks went off behind his eyes and the whole world shut down.

***

John's first sensation upon regaining consciousness was the taste of sweet orange in his mouth. When had they eaten marmalade?

The next was a feeling of lightness inside, as if he'd swallowed pure sunshine and it was burning away all the bitterness and confusion of his past. He sighed deeply and stretched. His skin was cool in the early morning air.

He rolled onto his side and opened his eyes. Sherlock sat upright on the bed beside him, the white, glitter-dusted sheet pooled around his waist.

"Good morning," John said, exhaling the scent of oranges.

"Mmm," Sherlock replied. It wasn't an entirely happy sound.

"Everything all right?" John asked, sitting up and rubbing Sherlock's arm, which was totally allowed now, a thing he could do any time.

"Metaphor's gone," Sherlock said.

John sat up and looked around the room. "What do you mean, gone?"

"I don't completely remember. We both passed out, but I think he disintegrated."

"What? That can't be. He's dead?" John struggled to find the appropriate emotional note, but he simply felt elated and at ease with himself.

Sherlock sat up and pulled the sheet around him. "He's a literary device, John. Unless the world becomes a much more dull place than it is already, there will always be room for metaphor, if not Metaphor. But yes, I think he's gone. The force of his own passions destroyed him."

John nodded. "And saved us, really, if you think about it." He reached for Sherlock's hand and kissed it. "I don't know that we would have gotten here without him, so I can't be sorry."

"Yes," Sherlock said, his eyes soft as he touched John's face. "There is that. Still I wish I understood more about it, if there were some chance we could have saved him."

A knock sounded at the door of the flat.

Once they'd scrambled to find clothes that weren't slathered in glitter, John opened the door to find seven beautiful women crammed into the hall and stairwell.

"Hi, John. I'm Heimish. Mind if we come in?" the first of them asked, a cute redhead.  

"What? Who?"

Another, with adorable curls and a soft smile, swiped his cheek with a cotton swab. "I'm Queenie," she said, showing the swab to yet another cute redhead behind her, who nodded seriously and cracked open what appeared to be an enormous empty plastic tub. "This is Dollie. I'm sorry, we need access to the residual glitter in your flat." They bundled into the kitchen, hauling equipment with them.

"Back here," Dollie said, waving around a squawking instrument shaped rather like a dildo and pointing toward the bedroom. "This is clearly the epicentre."

 John turned to Sherlock, who had sprawled on the sofa in the sitting room. "Clearly the seven mums," he said, shrugging. "We should have known they'd be along."

"I don't understand," John said, wondering exactly how he'd missed the fact that all Baskerville women seemed to be ridiculously charismatic and lovely.

"You're here to investigate, are you not?" Sherlock asked of the next woman.

"Rose. That's right." She pushed a pair of glasses higher on her nose. "We know there was a metaphorical crisis here last night, around two in the morning."

"And we don't mean to intrude," said a fabulous purple-haired woman who stepped in through the door. "I mean, we would love to know, if you're interested in sharing any details, but what exactly happened is between the two of you and Metaphor."

"Moni makes a good point, although anything you have to say would be for the sake of science," a sassy brunette with a teacherly air said. "I'm Hope, by the way. We'll send someone to collect your reports when you've had time to recover." She cleared her throat delicately.

Just when John thought the sitting room couldn't get any more full, a twee young thing in pigtails came in through the door and seemed to assess the situation immediately. "Oh, red pants deployment was go," she said. "Gosh, I'm so proud of him. I can't wait to tell him."

Sherlock stood up from the sofa. "Wait, you mean to tell me Metaphor is alive?"

Hope and Moni exchanged a significant look, but it was Heimish who spoke. "In a manner of speaking, he can't die, not really."

"See?" Sherlock said. "I knew it!"

"That's right," said Rose. "Literary devices come in and out of fashion, but they never really expire."

"It makes sense," Sherlock said. "Still, I thought there was a chance we exploded him."

At that moment, Dollie and Queenie returned from the bedroom. The canister was now full of glitter that seemed to shift and shimmer of its own accord.

"Good news," Dollie said. "We've collected enough of him that Metaphor will regenerate, in time."

"Oh," John said. "Well that's--that's amazing. So we can see him again?" He wasn't sure how he felt about sharing Sherlock on a regular basis, but every once in a while sounded like a great idea.

"I'm not sure how often you'll need to," said the twee young thing in pigtails. "His work here is done."

Dollie stepped forward, brandishing the instrument that looked a lot like a dildo. "Don't worry about Metaphor. The world will always have a need for him. There may be other things he will have to do in London. There's an extraordinary degree of emotional stupidity here. But for the time being, we'll take him home."

With that the seven lady scientists bundled out of 221B Baker Street, leaving John and Sherlock alone, thoroughly happy, and almost entirely sated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the silliest thing I've ever written. If you've read this far, THANK YOU and I hope it put a smile (not a simile) on your face.
> 
> There is a sly and thoroughly inaccurate shoutout to [this glitter-based fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4375361) by ewebie and jamlockk in this chapter. The glitter gang are the Metaphor Short-Statures to the glitterati's Johns, or something? Some of us are clones of the other ones. We're still sorting it out but the universe is strange and there is glitter.
> 
> Metaphor explodes via three of my favourite johnlock makeout / orgasm moments, go check out the fics of origin: 
> 
> The neon orgasm occurs, thanks to John's nimble tongue, in [The Progress of Sherlock Holmes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/173274?view_full_work=true) by ivyblossom.
> 
> "Little stars of pleasure" are part of the excellent first kiss / declaration scene in [Over Fathoms Deep](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1744148?view_full_work=true) by bittergreens.
> 
> Fireworks go off behind John's eyes one of the many times he orgasms in the fabulous [A Satisfactory Arrangement](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3337118) by SilentAuror.


End file.
